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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
   L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣  L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I L  V COMMENTS!On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara  passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links:  These pictures rotate.   Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
| YOU SHALL NOT BE NAMED Hiss all you want, I'm pissed at how you only think of yourself, how 'others' are always to blame. I'm tired of your f***ing games that reduce me to tears, trigger my fears, demean me. I can't wait until you're history, when your tizzy-fits are known for the narcissism that it showed, a never-ending pulp fiction, a toilet-papered tantrum. I can't wait to forget your face, your fame obliterated, your petulance a mere footnote to this nightmarish loss, game over and thankfully done. May it come sooner than later. May God speed your demise. No, I won't pray for your health, bow to your wealth, kiss your white ass, nor mention your name. KE [177.43] (19.abril.2020) |
| Throw me a thread I've followed crumbs —— in order to find you but crows get there first, won't show me the way. Pines say they know —— their whispers fade out in the calm at the end of the day. I arrive at your doorstep —— twenty years late. I knock —— and only hear echoes of laughter. I want to join in but windows are shut, doors locked, bones hanging from rafters. I am lost in your labyrinth, caught in your web, pricked by roses —— pruned to leave thorns. To show the way in, throw me a thread I'll wait here —— ravaged and torn. KE [177.41] (19.april.2020) |
| Dreams by day, mares by night Dreams by day, mares by night; demons wait till lids shut tight like a driver asleep at the wheel. They squeal in delight to dump whatever horror I need to relive over and over and over again. You're there somewhere hidden by others, but sensed, none-the-less, and silent. I seek you in life's labyrinth as walls shift to block my way. I need to hear your voice. But others shout in my ear and I can only hear my heartbeat every time they scream; No, it's not daylight's dreams I fear when demonic mares gather each sunset and softly neigh. Go away, I answer, unable to stay awake. KE [177.38] (17.aprille.2020) Note: For years, I had recurring nightmares searching for a friend I could not find. They have thankfully dissipated over time. |
plane, train, automobile   take-off, jerk-forward, find-the-right-gear  jerk-off choo-choo, sputter, roar  bore-me swerve, bounce, back-and-forth  go-forth land, hit-the-break, blow-the whistle  blow-me KE [177.37] (16.abril.2020) |
| This empty landscape color removed by darkest night promised by moonlight dawn's cold lies as white light white mountains white sky faceless whiteness blinds then binds us naked and restless from living stranded in between at twilight when despondency from struggles covets snow's stillness grave's repose KE [177.34] (15.april.2020) Note:repetition of 8/5/3 104.080 |
| Rosemary told me she has no tattoos Spring sprung and peach blossoms burst. Rosemary was tempted to ride a motorbike; but, she'd never ridden in an ambulance before, never'd hit a deer, never watched someone die and didn't want herself to be the first. She had no scars, no broken bones (except ... maybe ... her little toe). She wanted to live under bluegreen skies, thrive to capture eighty more years of sunrise over the ocean, more summer sunsets and slices of warm peach pie. I penned another poem to honor her name and asked who'll read this? Rosemary smiled, then replied: Don't matter to me. KE [177.33] (14.april.2020) This is supposed to be like a sonnet but breaking the rules. To me it's just free verse. I have no idea what others consider a beat or a meter or anything else. My ear does not hear any music in what I wrote above and I hear what I read so for me it feels like cut up prose. But whatever ... It's based on answers at spacebook to one of those silly questionnaires. Have you ever done this? Do you have any of those? Who will play along? I left out that Rosemary doesn't have a tattoo... and then added that tidbit to the title. She's a real person and just turned 80. 104,078 blog views |
| A prosy pot of poseys And there among the pottery, the broken earthenware a crockery fit to line the bottom of a palm tree pot that in the conservatory among the snobbery subjugates the jugs that hold the bleeding hearts that moan beyond true mockery we try to help as naughtily arrives the frozen daughter of Count Daughtery the Icy-maiden Valerie the Valkyrie-of-kill-all-hope herself. KE [177.32] (13.april.2020) |
| Hidden in the closet there's a door to dreams Calm dreams fade with gathering twilight, nightmares invade his body's chaos, poking at pus as gusts grow colder. Slam shut the door to remembrance! Not every window needs to be transparent. Opaqueness protects the fragile seedling seeking strength to brave the storm once the door to danger opens. He sits and count the minutes, afraid to leave too soon, too late. The say life's best lived in sunlight, but for him, hidden in the closet, there's a door to dreams KE [177.30] (12.april.2020) |
| AI AI AI We scream in voices our forefathers would barely recognize, mis-communicate in ways they could not fathom. Are we Artificial, Natural or both? We surely aren't ... intelligent. Artifice or artifact our lies belie us, expose this truth: we are but flesh and yet, the soul within knows better, muted, bides its time until released it soars back to the Omnipresent Source that feeds it. KE [177.28] (11.aprille.2020) 104.065 |
| [as flesh sloughs off these blenching bones] as flesh sloughs off these blenching bones, you fill the hours of my longing abandoned, I will die alone for I am made of dirt and stone and naught can right these worldly wrongs once flesh sloughs off these blenching bones what friends could not accept, condone I spoke to swaying gath'ring throngs yet now abandoned, die alone where bitter winds have come and blown away the breath of once belonging flesh sloughs off these blenching bones and only you are left to moan, one fading note, one last torch song but now I leave to die alone your fingers can no longer roam my face, embrace and heal with songs as flesh sloughs off these blenching bones abandoned, I will die alone KE [177.26] (10.abril.2020) A variation of a villanelle: 1b2 ab1 ab2 ab1 ab2 ab12 104,075 |
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